


five scars Dean never actually had

by killabeez



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Gen, Post-Canon, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-09-01
Updated: 2006-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-03 19:12:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killabeez/pseuds/killabeez
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for Lady Jaida, as part of the Five Things meme. Five scars Dean never actually had.</p>
            </blockquote>





	five scars Dean never actually had

**Author's Note:**

> Written for ladyjaida, who writes the most amazing Supernatural fanfic, and who therefore makes me nervous and shy to post this.

He never had to carry the memory of seeing his mother die, because even back then, his dad kept his head in a crisis and reacted with the quick instincts of a hunter, the protective instincts of a father, and Dean never made it as far as the door of the nursery.

* * *

Being shot with rock salt stings like a bitch, and he imagines it scars up pretty good, too. After he got over being pissed about it, though (which took a good six hours' sleep and eating all of Sam's French fries and most of his chocolate milk shake), he went out and got a jar of Vitamin E cream, and made a point of putting some on a couple times a day, because the last thing he needed was Sam looking like he'd just killed somebody's kitten every time Dean took his shirt off for the rest of their lives.

* * *

Funny, but it turns out words don't leave scars, even when it seems like they should. He knows this because if they did, his body would be a map of _they offered me a full ride, Dean_, and _I told you not to let him out of your sight,_ and _things will never be the way they were before_, and it's good that they don't because he gets enough suspicious looks as it is.

* * *

When it was all over (demon zero, Winchesters one) things were good for a while. Dad couldn't really hunt any more, but his mind was still as sharp as ever, and Dean and Sam could take down pretty much anything by then. Things were fairly quiet on the front lines anyway once the dust settled. It lasted longer than Dean ever would have imagined. One day he woke up and realized he'd actually gotten what he'd always wanted most, and he kind of even started to let himself relax a little, let himself get used to the idea that maybe it would always be that way. Then one day the inevitable happened, and Sam finally did as he'd always said he'd do: he moved on, made a life for himself, and Dean accepted it with hardly a flinch because really, when you got right down to it, he'd already been given far more than he'd ever expected. Besides, Sam came to visit every couple of months and called all the freakin' time, even sent him stupid emails like three times a day, and he'd learned long ago that you take what you can get.

* * *

 

And then one night, two years later, he was staking out a stretch of back road in Boswell, Indiana where some hikers had disappeared -- nothing special, he figured, just some kind of feline cryptoid that had gotten a taste for human meat -- but the thing turned out to be smart, and inhumanly fast, and immune to silver bullets, and apparently had six inch claws and some kind of venom that paralyzed its victims, and wasn't that a bitch and more than a little unfair? And it was right about the time that he was losing all feeling in his legs and it had hunted him to ground in the ditch by the side of the deserted road, and he was maybe starting to get just a little bit worried about seeing the other side of this thing, that he saw the gleam of approaching headlights. Tires screeched and a door slammed and he was kind of close to passing out by then, but he stuck with it long enough to see a familiar, freakishly tall silhouette come sliding down the embankment and take out Dean's quarry with one well-aimed slice of a machete -- swoosh, no more head, no more monster, that's all she wrote. Then Dean realized it was long past time he passed out, and things were pretty much a blank there for a while after that.

He came to in a butt-ass-ugly motel room, lying on his belly, Sam bent over him with a needle-- shit, _motherfucker_ that hurt. "Hey, man," he protested, turning his head and trying to see over his shoulder, "what the hell are you doin'?"

"What does it look like?" said Sam, flashing him a look and pressing him back down to the bed. "I'm saving your ass." He smirked. "Literally, this time. And if you can feel the needle, I'd say that's a good sign."

"Easy for you to say, Doctor Feelgood," Dean shot back. Then the pain of Sam's careful stitches made the fog clear a little more from his brain, and he remembered that Sam hadn't been with him. "Hey, how'd you find me, anyway?"

"Hello, psychic, remember? Now hold still, if you don't want me to leave a scar."

"Don't even think about it. Dude, that's not even funny. That's some of my best real estate you're workin' on, there."

Sam laughed. "I am so not touching that with a ten foot pole."

The sound of Sam's laugh was better than a shot of good tequila; it went straight to Dean's belly in exactly the same way. He pushed that aside and lay back down, resting his forehead on his crossed arms. It hurt, but he was used to Sam's steady, even hands, his small, careful stitches. Sam was good at it -- had to be, back in the day. Dean knew it wouldn't scar.

It took a long time, but Dean stayed awake for all of it; the pain didn't give him a lot of choice. At last, Sam finished, then put ointment and a bandage on the mended gashes. He pulled the sheet up to Dean's waist and patted him between the shoulder blades. "You still with me?"

"Yeah, m'here. Won't be ridin' a motorcycle any time soon though, I guess, huh?"

"Since when do you ride a motorcycle?"

"Since never, but that's beside the point." Sam's hand was still on his back; it had slipped higher, resting warm and steady just below the back of his neck. Sam squeezed once, then let go, reaching for a plastic cup on the night stand.

"You lost a lot of blood. Drink this."

"Yes, Nurse Chapel." Dean drank the salt-sugar water, and made a face. "Man, that's nasty."

"Yeah, I know, what else is new."

Dean finished most of what was in the cup, then sank back down with a grimace. He turned his head to the side and got his first good look at Sam, who had shifted higher on the bed and turned to stretch his legs out, eyes closed, leaning against the headboard. Despite the familiar lines of strain around his eyes, evidence of the inevitable migraine, he looked good. Tired and muddy, but good. Dean knew he should rag him about sitting on the bed while he was still covered in ditch and probably Dean's blood, but he didn't really want him to go just yet.

If he'd been a different man, Dean might have thought about what it meant that Sam was there, about the possibility that he really had been about to bite the big one tonight on some nothing hunt, for no particularly good reason other than bad luck. He might have thought about playing this a little. Might have said, hey, so, maybe it's not such a good thing that I don't have you around to watch my back any more. Maybe you should stick around.

But then, _What do you call this?_ Sammy would say. And the bitch of it was, he'd be right.

Dean sighed, and closed his eyes, letting himself start to drift. "Don't suppose your vision told you to bring beer, huh?"

Sam's hand found Dean's back again, and Dean could hear the tired smile in his voice. "Sorry, man. Had other priorities."


End file.
